


Infinitely Weary

by shyday



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: 10!Whump, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Prompt Fic, post-ep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-03
Updated: 2012-03-03
Packaged: 2017-11-02 20:29:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shyday/pseuds/shyday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She bets Rose would've known what to do. Post-ep for Season3 "Gridlock," with mentions of "Smith and Jones" and "The Shakespeare Code."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Infinitely Weary

**Author's Note:**

> (March 2012) This is my first attempt at writing anything in a very long time, and my first foray into this fandom. It really began as merely practice to get me back into things, and before I finished it I came across a couple of excellent fics on ff.net set around the same time. (ellijay's “Running on Adrenalin” is one.) I almost gave it up, but, as it was only an exercise, I decided to finish and post it anyway. I can only hope I brought in a little contribution of my own.
> 
> Oh, and they don't belong to me. We all know this.

He tells her of a young boy sitting under a copper moon, fingers and nose going numb in the icy night air. Of bugs like fireflies, blinking in and out of the darkness. The way they caught that burnished light. Momentary sparks; tiny stars flickering before his eyes. Close enough to taste. Of staring past them, out through their pinpoints to let his eyes refocus on the glowing city beyond. Distant buildings sheltered under their perfect dome. Like looking into someone else's lit window, imagining their sounds, their smells. Their lives so far from yours. He tells her of sitting on the hill, dreaming of those lives.

Of looking even further, looking up to the galaxies. And dreaming of the lives out there.

He transports her with these images, these postcards from a world now gone. So much so that the shaded alley-street in which they sit begins to take on a definite chill. Martha can see herself there, on the Doctor's dead world. The faint hint of mountain snow tickles her nose. She pulls her hands up into her sleeves to keep them warm. 

He tells her of a great war. A terrible war. A war to end worlds, civilizations. He tells her that he alone survived, or so he thought. He tells her that it was all his fault, but he won't say how. She tries to listen to all the things he's not telling her. It seems to her to be the more important part. 

He's long since stopped talking to her, she realizes. Swept up in his memories alongside him, she's not sure when it was that he'd started telling his story almost exclusively to the pavement beside her right shoe. Leaning forward, forearms resting heavily on his knees, his eyes are almost hidden by his drooping hair. She wonders if he can see the red grass covering the spot. She could too, a moment ago.

His voice is getting hoarse, a whispery sound that makes her want to clear her own throat in the hopes it will help. She's not getting every word he's saying any more. She's pretty sure he's forgotten that she's even here. Now and then a cough breaks across the flow of his meandering sentences. She remembers the air down below the street and finally does clear her throat, scratching at the itch that's sprung up there. 

Martha shifts in the plastic chair. The motion catches his attention, brings him back from his pictures of the past. He doesn't straighten from his hunched position, but his head comes up and gravity obliges with the errant hairs. She can see his eyes now. 

She wishes she couldn't.

She's not sure how old he is, this alien man that's suddenly dropped into her life. But those eyes tell her it's much older than she's ever guessed. They murmur of sorrow and wisdom, of wonder and death. She's struck by the depth in those dark pupils. Martha is reminded she's traveling with a total stranger. And that she's a long, long way from her home. What does she really know about him, after all? As he looks at her – no, not at her really, more _through_ her – a tingling starts in her toes, her fingers. 

She has no idea what the look means. She has no idea what the tingling is supposed to mean either.

The Doctor blinks, and his head dips a little. Now he just looks tired. Infinitely so. Her eyes follow the line of his bent shoulders, wishing she had some kind of comfort to offer. As if there were some kind of greeting card for people who've lost their whole planet. 

“I'm sorry,” she tries anyway. “It sounds beautiful.”

He smiles with his lips alone; a ghost smile, but something. “It was.” He's looking past her again, another world superimposed on these streets. She curses herself for forcing this. Watching the top of his bowed head, she casts about for ideas on how to fix it.

But she finds herself at a loss, prompting again the little voice that's all too happy to point out how little she knows. About him. About the universe. About time. What is she doing here? Honestly, does she even truly understand where “here” _is_? Another voice now: her mum's. The one that's always taught her never to talk to strangers. She tells it to shut up.

The Doctor shakes himself, meeting her eyes again. This time his smile is all teeth, a snap of a grin like the turning of a page. “Right then. Answered your question satisfactorily, have I?” Not waiting for her response, he jumps to his feet. The tan coat spills down to its true length as he rises, the edges dancing about his legs as he turns. He takes a few steps away from her before Martha's reflexes catch up with the abrupt shift and she gets up as well, following behind. Hands deep in pockets, he doesn't look at her. She tries to keep up.

The toe of his Converse catches something that isn't there, and the Doctor stumbles. Stops. He's staring down at the offending ground, his eyebrows pulled together in... what? Annoyance? Confusion? Martha wraps her fingers around a skinny elbow and those eyes come up to meet hers once more. Remembering she's here. She wonders if she's just imagining the uncertainty she sees there now. As if he isn't entirely clear anymore on where he is.

She bets Rose would've known what to do.

Martha forces her brightest smile. “Come on. Places to see, yeah?”

But the answering smile she'd hoped for isn't nearly as shining as she'd expected. Is it because he doesn't intend to take her any further? Martha squishes down the thought. 

“Yeah,” is all he says. Gently pulls his arm out of her grip to run a hand through his hair. 

She lets her hand drop empty to her side.

For a moment they simply stand there. She's afraid that anything she says at this point might make things worse. She'd had no idea, is all. Demanding her answers, insisting on his story. No idea that he was so very alone. And now here they are. 

He coughs, the sound harsh in the silence of the empty street. He's massaging the back of his neck with one hand, and she realizes with a little jolt that his eyes are closed. This Doctor is so different from the one she's become accustomed to. It's as if all that seemingly boundless energy has melted away, lost down into the cracks of this dirty, damp alley. 

He coughs again, and she flashes back to flying through smoky, unbreathable air. It occurs to her that she doesn't yet know the Doctor's version of their latest adventure. They haven't yet had time to compare stories. When his coughing extends into a full-blown fit, doubling him over as he struggles to get control, she thinks it might be good to get his side sooner rather than later.

She rubs slight circles on his back as he sucks in slow, careful breaths. “Doctor? Are you all right? Does this have something to do with the air in the Motorway?” 

He's got his hands on his knees, and she can't really see his face. The sound he makes is like a cross between a choke and a giggle. “May have... inhaled a lung-full or two.” The Doctor draws himself back up to his full height and stays there, as if checking for something. Then, sparing her the barest of glances, he says, “It's fine. _Allons-y_.” And begins again down the street toward the TARDIS.

Martha wastes a few seconds, watching after him with her mouth open and an unformed reply on her lips. When she moves to follow, she's thinking about how long this day has been. About how long this street now seems to be. About how she just wants to get back to the TARDIS: to take a shower, to get in her bed. Not to her flat, not to her own time. Just to the TARDIS, where they can regroup and recover.

She's thinking about how easy it would be for the TARDIS to become Home. Thinking it when the Doctor staggers up ahead of her and goes down on one knee.

“Doctor!” It only takes a few steps to reach him. He's dragging in raspy gulps of the moist air, and she hears something that sounds like “respiratory bypass.” She definitely hears the word “TARDIS.” Martha isn't sure what the first means, but she understands the second. Squirming her way under his shoulder, she manages to brace him enough to get to his feet. Their initial steps are a drunken parody, but a few more and she finds an imitation of sync. Enough to get them moving, anyway. He's got his head down, but he's mostly walking. With her help. She wishes she knew where they'd parked.

With every foot he seems to get a little heavier, until one misstep turns her ankle awkwardly under the pressure of their combined weight. Martha squeaks, wavering, but they don't go down. She stops, rebalancing to lift her foot just off the ground, and tests the rotation of the joint. 

He tries weakly to pull away from her, to stand on his own. His “sorry” sounds unbearably ragged. She holds tightly to the hand hanging over her shoulder, not having to put in much effort to keep him from getting away.

“It's nothing, see?” She twists her ankle back and forth in front of them, ignoring the angry twinge. No permanent damage, she thinks. As long as she can walk on it, she can get them where they need to go. He coughs again, turning his head away as far as he can with them still being attached at the shoulder. She studies the tendons straining under the skin of his neck, waiting for the episode to pass. When his head finally swings back to its proper place, his profile is pale and slack. Except for the wash of color high across his cheekbone, he looks like he did when she found him on the hospital floor. 

Dead.

Martha shivers. Turns her own head purposely forward. “Let's get you back, Doctor. Don't know about you, but I don't fancy spending another night in this place. Warm beds for us, I say.”

That earns her a vague, half-smile and determined nod. They continue onward, regaining a semblance of rhythm; she concentrates on putting one foot squarely in front of the other. There are no birds here, no traffic noise. No airplanes in this area. And, thanks to the Doctor, no people. Just laboured breathing and shuffled steps. 

For just a moment, the fantasy comes that they may be walking this street forever.

That feeling returns without warning, the same punch to the stomach feeling she got when they told her she was going to be trapped in that tiny pod for _years_. Years before they got to where they were going. Years before she could possibly be let out. Trapped in a flying coffin, surrounded by smog. Martha wrenches her eyes upward, seeing sky between the fingers of the tall buildings. Far away, but there. Open. She tells herself firmly that she's free.

And then they turn a corner, and she sees that familiar blue box. Waiting patiently between the close walls. It's still some distance off at the pace they're moving, but the Doctor seems a little lighter now. Whether that's her impression at their nearness to their goal, or because he too has recognized what's up ahead, it feels as if she's not taking on as much of his weight. Whichever it is, Martha is grateful. They might just make it after all.

“Almost there,” she tells him, unnecessarily. Though maybe they both need to hear it said aloud. 

The last few steps are an effort, but they make it without incident. She props him up against the door, and he rests the side of his face against the smooth wood, eyelids sinking. Martha tries to remember where he keeps the key; she decides to start with his pants pockets. She's got one hand on his arm, in the hopes that she'll be the first to notice if his legs decide to stop doing their job. With her head bent in focus on her search, the murmur of his voice comes at her from above.

“Really, Martha, I'm flattered, but perhaps another time? Not exactly tip-top right now...”

Her hand in his pocket freezes its groping, a ridiculous warmth spreading over her face. She reflexively starts to pull back, and her finger brushes metal. “Dirty old man,” she teases, holding the key up in front of his face. “I was looking for this.”

He shrugs heavily as she opens the door, fingers gripping the door frame before almost propelling himself inside. “My loss then,” she swears she hears as he trips up the ramp ahead of her. He collapses onto the padded jumpseats around the central console before she can react. 

Not that she's at all sure how to react.

He's slumped there, blinking at nothing, breathing roughly. The med student in her gives a nudge. She's not sure if she imagines the increase in the TARDIS's low hum. “Doctor,” she says gently, moving toward him, “I think you said something about a bypass? If we can get you to the medbay, I'm sure I can figure -”

He waves a hand loosely at her, not even turning his head. “...s'nothing, Rose. Jus' need rest… sort itself.”

Martha flinches, tries to force herself beyond the name to translate what he's actually said. A process his body performs on its own? Or is he just deflecting, trying to get her to leave him alone? She doesn't know what to do. So she takes refuge in the basics.

“Okay, to bed then.” She waits for another leering comment, but there's nothing. Just her Doctor, unfocused and exhausted. Wishing for his Rose. 

She squares her shoulders. Well he's got Martha Jones instead, she tells herself. And that's nothing at all to complain about. 

She's rewarded when he does look at her then, says her real name. Though the two syllables sound off balance on his tongue, and the uncertain flick of his eyes around the room can be in search of no one but Her. He licks his lips, gaze finding hers before darting away. “I thought...? No, 'course not...” He's not speaking to her. She pretends in her heart that she doesn't know what he means.

She starts to reach for him, intending on getting him up. But he pulls in a measured breath through his nose and pushes himself to his feet, swaying for only a moment before moving to the controls. The usual dematerialization procedure is nowhere near as frenetic as normal. Compared to the crazed calisthenics that generally accompany take-off, Martha feels like she's watching him work underwater. 

He shrugs off his coat, tossing it toward the railing and missing. Shoving another lever with the heel of his hand, he mutters something under his breath. She hopes it's not directed at her. She thinks about picking up the coat. Decides to leave it. Imagines him falling over it if he turns back this way. 

With a sigh, she rounds the console and bends to get the coat.

When she straightens, he's stopped moving. Palms flat on the panel's surface, his stiff arms look to be the only thing holding him up. Martha watches the slope of his back shift with each hesitant inhalation. Draping the coat over the intended railing, she moves to stand by his side.

He doesn't look at her. “There,” he says. “Safe and sound.” His voice is gravel tumbling from a chute. There are dots of sweat along his hairline, and she wonders if he's running a fever. Later, she resolves, she's getting a course in Time Lord physiology. No debates. Because this is getting a little ridiculous.

Or would be, were it not so seriously him. 

He cringes when she touches the back of her hand to his cheek, the lines around his eyes and mouth tightening for a second. But he says nothing. The tense lines relax. Martha feels the corners of her mouth twitch in the hint of a smile at the small concession.

Warm, close to human normal. Another thing she doesn't yet know is his proper body temperature, but she knows this is too high. The few times she's come into contact with his skin in the past, it's been decidedly cooler. Stomping down a flutter memory of the feeling of his hand in hers, she tries to guess at how _much_ cooler.

But his elbows are beginning to tremble under his weight, and she reminds herself about the basics. She drops a hand to his back. He continues to stare straight ahead.

She's about to suggest bed again, when he does it for her. “I think I... I'm afraid I'm a bit tired.” It takes concentration to pull the words from his mumbling. “Think I may go lie down.”

Finally. “Good idea, Doctor. Here, let me help you.” 

She takes his arm, surprised when he suddenly jerks away. “Oi! You're not -” His eyes lock on to hers for an instant. But, before she can even try to name the emotions swirling there, the lids come down, locking her out. He wobbles before her on flimsy legs, words spilling over themselves in an attempt to explain.

“What I mean to say is, _it's_ not... I mean, I'm not. I mean, I _am_. Fine, that is. It's fine. I'm fine.” He swallows, opening his eyes to address the leather cuff of her right sleeve. “It'll _be_ fine. I promise.” His look dances up to her face and away. Fingertips come up to rub at his temple, his eye. “You should get some sleep.” He turns, heading for the doorway to the corridor. 

It occurs to her that she doesn't know precisely where the Doctor's bedroom is; but, judging by his stooped shuffle, he's not going to make it a very long way. She's not an idiot - he's made it clear he just wants to be left alone. But she can't exactly leave him passed out half-way down the hall, and her ankle says it most definitely does not want to carry him. So she makes herself ask. 

“Uh, Doctor, sorry, how far exactly -?”

He doesn't look back, continuing his slow progress. So she can't be sure that the tired smile in his voice is really there. “Don't worry,” he says. “It'll be right here...” He exits through the arch, and she waits, muscles taut, ready to move at the faintest sound. 

Like, say, the sound of an adult-sized male body crashing unceremoniously onto metal deck plating. 

She hears nothing. After a moment, she deems it safe to move.

“'Don't worry,' he says.” She stretches, listening to the leather squeak as she moves her neck around in her jacket collar. “Fine, fine, everything's fine.” She picks up the Doctor's coat and transfers it to the standing rack by the door. 

She slides her fingers over a button. Evens out the lapel. “I know I'm not her. But I wish you'd let me try to help.” 

The coat has no answers for her. Martha decides it's time for a shower and a change of clothes.

*

Sleep, he'd said. And she certainly intends to do that. But there's no chance of her getting to sleep until she checks in on him.

Judging by the inexplicable pull coming from this new door she's found right off the central room, the TARDIS knows this too. 

Despite what he'd said, she didn't expect to find a door here. There wasn't a door here before, she's certain of it. And she knows it could just as easily not be here now, if the ship didn't want it here. She feels as if she's being given permission. She feels as if she's being asked for help.

But she pauses, her hand inches from the door. While the TARDIS may (or may not, the little voice says) be giving her permission to enter, the Doctor hasn't. She's never seen his bedroom – never even seen the _door_ until now – and on some level this can feel like nothing else but an invasion of privacy. Maybe she should knock?

She knocks. There's no answer. 

Then the door opens on its own.

“Okay then. Message received.” She's a doctor. The Doctor's doctor? Martha shakes her head and carefully pushes open the door. Taking a deep breath, she slides silently into the cool darkness. 

She's pretty sure that, if she doesn't, the TARDIS is going to find a way to physically shove her through anyway.

The room doesn't look much different from the empty one he showed her to that first night she was here, and she wonders for a moment if it's even his. She imagines him randomly falling into whichever room is closest when he feels the need to sleep, bouncing from one to another on sheer fact of proximity. But no. The air here feels different. Cooler, yes, but _deeper_. As if she can wrap it around herself, roll herself up in it. Protect herself within it. 

She feels safe in here.

And once her eyes begin to adjust to the dim light, there are other things. Few marks for man who has lived so long, but personal items nonetheless. It's hard to really tell what most of them are – the corner of a small box, a worn tapestry hanging in shadows – but they're there, casting their shapes into the darkness. His room then. She's in the Doctor's room.

She looks to the bed in the far corner to find out why the Doctor hasn't yet noticed. As she'd hoped, he seems to be sleeping. On top of all the sheets and still wearing everything up to his sneakers, he's sprawled on his stomach in a jumble of awkward limbs. One arm's dangling off the bed all the way up to the shoulder, and there's a clear frown on the features mashed against the pillow. Even now, his breathing is still worryingly rough.

Martha moves closer and sees that his lips are moving, but any sounds he might be making are softer than the beat of her own heart in the dusk of this room. Still feeling something of an intruder, she steps close enough to touch him. His pinstripe suit coat – the only thing he apparently bothered with before passing out on the bed – is lumped at her feet, and she nudges it away with the toe of her shoe. 

Lightly brushing damp hair from pale skin, she tells herself she's only checking his temperature. 

Which is still too warm. She just wishes she knew how much so. A red ripple of frustration rides through her, and she beats back the urge to shout into the hush. All that schooling, all that human medical knowledge... for nothing. Not here and now, floating through the Void with an alien in a wooden box filled with technology she doesn't even begin to understand. She's afraid there's something she should be doing, Some tool she should be using. Something in her training that can help, even if to do nothing more than make her feel less useless. 

She adds “Alien Medical Equipment” to her mental list of upcoming required classes. If the Doctor won't teach her, she'll find a way to have the TARDIS do it instead.

His foot twitches, then his shoulder. Thinking he might be coming around, Martha takes an involuntary step back. But he doesn't open his eyes. As undecipherable words begin to sporadically reach her ears, she leans toward him again, trying to grab on to their meanings. His voice is the faintest of volumes. When she gives in and slips to her knees beside the bed, she realizes the words are in a language she doesn't know. A language that isn't being translated.

There's a slice of fear, that _long way from home_ whisper. As if in response, she swears she feels the air shift around her, a reassurance of that safety. Martha smiles up at the ceiling, touched by the comfort. 

Though his words are still unclear, the emotion behind them is becoming less so the more of them she gets. Like she's trying to tune a signal on her car radio in the country, his voice fades in and out. But the intensity of what she can hear seems to be increasing, as does the speed at which his lips are moving. And there's no mistaking the feeling behind his deepening frown.

Martha sits back on her heels, taking his hanging hand in hers. She rubs a repetitive pattern into his skin with her thumb, watching his face. Gradually the tense expression eases out and the murmurs begin to slow. When his eyes unexpectedly open a moment later, his face seems almost uncomfortably close to her own. 

“Hello,” he says.

Martha grins, thrilled to have him both awake and comprehensible. “Hello. How're you feeling?”

He blinks at her sluggishly. Runs his tongue over his lips, along his teeth. “A bit... muddy, actually.” More blinking, but he doesn't look like he can really focus. “Muddled,” he tries again, working to lift his head from the pillow.

A concentrated effort later and he's propped himself up on an elbow, the one previously crushed between his body and the mattress at such a difficult angle. She notices this because she's still holding his other hand. Too quickly she releases it, unsure of where she stands. She wonders if he'll be angry she's come in here.

He squints at her from his newly elevated position, arm shaking beneath him. “Why are you down there then?” Before she can answer, he's shaking his head. “Doesn't matter. Got to -”

He makes like he means to get up, but his arm gives out, sending him back down onto the bed. Now his head is hanging over the side as well, lolling next to his arm like parts of a limp doll. His face is inches from hers again, and even in the ambient light his eyes look glassy.

“Oooh, now that's a long way down.”

She thinks he's fooling with her, but she can't reconcile that with the now determined look of his eyebrows or the way he's pulled his arm up to grip the edge of the mattress through the blankets. He takes a few slow breaths, looking at something much further than the floor two feet away. What concerns Martha is the fact that he looks for all the world like someone preparing to jump.

“Doctor?”

“No time,” he tells her through teeth clenched in a set jaw. “Martha's down there. I can't -”

“Doctor, it's all right. I'm right here.” She puts a hand on his shoulder, trying to get him to look at her. His head twists in her direction, hair flopping heavily across his forehead, then turns immediately back to the imagined chasm. Martha gives the shoulder a small shake. “Doctor.”

“You don't understand!” His words come in a growl, and when he swings his eyes to hers again, she can see the fire in their blackness. She can't look away. She can't form a sentence. 

She never wants to see this look again.

And then it's gone. All of his energy into one bright burst, dissipating just as unexpectedly into hooded eyes and half-whispers. “She's down there, in one of those cars.” His gaze falls back to the carpet, and now she can barely hear him. “I've got to save her. My fault she's here.”

Martha decides to try something else. She needs to get him completely back onto the bed, at the very least. “Well, maybe I can help. I'm quite good at that sort of thing.”

He finds her in his peripheral vision this time. “Yeah?” It sounds hopeful, achingly so. 

“Yeah. So let's, uh, get back from the edge here, and we'll figure out what to do. Okay?” He doesn't argue with that logic, so she gets to her feet. A little prodding and pulling and he's on his back, much closer to the center of the bed. Satisfied, she sits beside him to give him a proper looking over.

As much as she can in the lack of light, anyway. But his eyes are closed again, and she doesn't want to risk disturbing that. If she can do nothing else for him, at least she can try to make sure he rests. 

He's still wearing almost all of his clothes, as she'd noticed when she came in. Even his tie, she can tell now, though it's been tugged at enough to loosen it up considerably. He doesn't look at all comfortable. She suddenly recalls coming to in the hospital, just before the paramedics rushed in, slumped in his arms on the floor under the window. All she had time to register was the beautiful blue sky of Earth and his drawn, pallid face. She thinks he looked better then than he does now.

He frowns when she starts to unlace one of his shoes, but his eyes don't open. She slides it off his foot and he shakes his head against the pillows, his voice not much louder than the sound of his hair scratching across the cloth. “No, no, we have to go. Down there. To save her.” 

“Down -?” Her mind offers up the laughable image of the Doctor leaping from car to car, ever downward in pursuit of her. It becomes rapidly less laughable when her memories start chiming in as well, calling up all the other absurd things she's already seen him do. Her fingertips freeze, the other shoelace pinched between them. “Surely, you don't mean... Doctor, did you actually _jump_ out of a car on that motorway?”

The Doctor grins, eyes still closed. “Hippity-hop. Lily pad to lily pad.” 

Martha groans. “So more than one car then. No wonder you can't breathe.” 

“Down, down, down...” 

“Right. Getting that part now, thanks.” One of his hearts had stopped on Shakespeare's planet. She factors that in with this, plus his death on the moon, and can't believe she didn't see this coming. Whatever this is. Finding his pulse steady in its own unique rhythm, she hopes this really is just his body's own way of sorting it all out. She hates not knowing what to do.

She rests a hand on his chest, finding reassurance in the growing steadiness to its up and down. “Doctor, I want to you listen to me. Try to focus, just for a minute. I know you're confused, but I need you to try.”

Eyelids dragged open. More blinking. Martha smiles at him, pleased at even this much of a response. “Okay, right. I need you to tell me if there's anything I can do. How can I help you?”

He stares at her blankly. It hurts her to see him this slow. In even her brief experience, she's the first to admit that keeping up with his vivacity isn't always an easy thing. It wouldn't be silly for a girl to wish from time to time that maybe things could just slow down. For a second. A tiny break. But this... This is so very far from who she thinks he is.

And she knows it hurts him too.

He looks around, in as much as the limited view from the pillows allows. Clears his throat. “Where's Rose gone?”

Martha's up off the bed before her brain processes the movement, stepping backward onto her twisted ankle in exactly the wrong way. Her sharp cry bounces off the shadow walls as she crumples to the floor. She stays there, curled around her leg, her face stinging like she's just been slapped. She has no idea at the moment of what else to do.

And then he's beside her, crouching on the thick carpet. His fingers brush the back of the hand grasping her ankle, concerned eyes rebounding between there and her face. He wets his lips. “Are you hurt? Can I help?” She wonders if he knows who she is.

She rubs at her ankle before releasing it, moving her hands to show him there's nothing for him to do. “Just a sprain. Stepped on it wrong is all.”

“Oh. Good.” The flare of urgency that got him here is already fast beginning to fade. He drops from his squatting position to sit hard on the floor, shoulders slumped, staring vacantly toward his feet. Her own shoulders feel tense enough to splinter. She waits for him to ask again about Rose.

She doesn't even know what she's going to tell him. _Oh, she's just off to the loo_. Or perhaps, _She's gone forever. Sorry 'bout that_? Maybe just shake him until he can finally see her. _I'm right here, Doctor. Not her. Me._ The thought brings exhausted tears to her eyes. It doesn't matter who he thinks she is, not right now. When he's better, he'll be happy she's here.

She pretends the echo she hears doesn't say _second best_.

Her habitual optimism battles to hold its own, stroking her with promises that this is only her fatigue talking. She needs to get the Doctor comfortable, and then get some sleep. Add a bit of ice to the mix, and everything just might right itself by the morning. If not, she can deal with it all then. One thing at a time.

Taking a deep breath, she shifts around to where she can try to get him up, and hopes that her ankle is prepared to take their weight. Her hand curls around his arm, and he turns to look at her. He seems to have almost nothing left. Infinitely weary. But this time, at least, the wisp of a smile makes it all the way to his eyes.

“Martha.” He exhales her name, and somehow it's the most genuine thing she feels she's ever heard. 

Her own smile breaks across her face, teeth glittering in the low light. “I'm here. Everything's going to be fine. I promise.”

His eyelids droop, flutter, open again. He swallows. “...so tired...”

She squeezes his arm, part in sympathy and part simply to keep him awake. “I know. And we're gonna fix that, yeah? But we have to get up. Can you help me?”

He nods, and they manage to repeat their performance from the street long hours before. She's grateful they don't have to go anywhere nearly as far this time, especially as he's offering far less assistance; they're both breathing hard by the time he's back on the bed. She removes his tie, but the speed at which his consciousness is clearly flagging suggests anything more might be best left for a little later. She isn't planning to be gone long anyway, wants to see to her ankle and catch a quick nap. She tells herself it's okay to leave him on his own.

Because he won't be. She takes his hand in hers, unsure if he's even still aware. Her other hand finds itself sliding flat over the wall behind his bed. “Doctor, I'm going to go for a bit, but I'll be back soon. If you need anything while I'm gone, just say. The TARDIS will find me, I know it. Okay?”

His fingers tighten briefly against her skin, and she wonders if she's imagining that he feels a little cooler. Settling his hand gently onto the blankets, she stands, centering on the next step of her primitive plan. Ankle. Then sleep. Right.

Not five feet away, his voice rasps through the air behind her. “Martha?”

She freezes, the absolute weakness in the word making her doubt her decision to go. Tired as she is, she's supposed to be a doctor. How can she leave a patient? A friend? She sighs inaudibly. She should stay here, see it all through. Even if she can do nothing. Even if she has to pretend to be Rose. 

But he only has a question. A question that, strangely, assures her that it's going to all work itself out in the end.

“Martha, why am I only wearing one shoe?” 

 

 

**end**


End file.
